Human Failure - "Crown On The Head Of A King Of Mud"

Not that I am just discovering this fact, but honestly, I'm an odd guy... I just am! My record collection best illustrates this point. I like what I like. Admittedly, for the most part I have steered clear of what I surmise is referred to as "Black/Death" -the subgenre. It has just always seemed as if the calling card of this subset is, like, noise for the sake of noise -a cacophonous expression with very little rhyme or reason. Nine times out of ten, I am not wrong in my belief that Black Death is nothing more than aural vomit, and believe me, players of the style are fine with that metaphor. Typically, "aural vomit" is exactly what they are going for.  In fact, a certain someone whom I have conversed with, a player in the "Black/Death" scene openly admitted to me that if your recording is in anyway accessible, then you have failed in recording a proper release within genre standards. Stupid! On Human Failure's 10" EP titled Crown On The Head Of A King Of Mud, however, I discovered a sonic invasion of my senses that synergized with my psyche instead of one that would further stoke my aversion for this type of musical expression.

Human Failure is the one-man project of Oakland, California citizen Daniel Cornejo. I discovered Cornejo's work last weekend while having my Saturday morning cup of joe as I browsed my usual music news sites (Decibel, MRR, Post Punk Online). An ad for Crown On The Head Of A King Of Mud was embedded right under the Decibel site's header. The cover art didn't really "shepherd's crook" me in, as images in that vein are a dime a dozen when you've been following the scene for close to four decades now. Not even the description of the sound therein particularly moved me, listing Human Failure as 'Black-Death-Noise-Punk'. Actually, it was the band name and more precisely the album title what did it for me. As if the obvious band name (that has miraculously not been usurped till now) wasn't great enough, the album's title -Bravo! It is so evocative! Let that be a lesson for all you whipper-snappers out there dropping records, TITLE IS EVERYTHING!!! I could not have given a single fuck about this band or its form of expression had it not been for the title that sucked me in.

  Crown On The Head Of A King Of Mud is out (as of May 7th) courtesy of SENTIENT RUIN LABORATORIES on 10" vinyl format, cassette or a 5 song digital album -all available at the Caligari link. I don't know if the fact that I am endorsing this release is high praise or a black eye to the integrity of it. On the one hand, the fact that it speaks to me can be a testament to Human Failure's musical ability to transcend a captive audience and appeal to a novice, an outsider. Still, the flipside to that notion is that this very same transcendent quality is not transcendence but rather pedestrian accessibility which really equals to nothing more than 'generic' and 'illegitimate' in a purist's eyes.

At any rate, this thing is fucking gnarly! I love the 2-man-or-less bands of today -a redeeming advent to have flourished in the twilight of the millennial generation. It took me a while to warm up to the concept of one man bands, but once I did they became an obsession. Cornejo is a sick, genius -fucked up butcher! Initiator "Poison Ideals" is unsettling, completely disorienting for the first thirty seconds until a D-Beat drop allows you to gain some footing. If you survive to track two, the title track, then you're in for a ride -here is where things get interesting That riff is worthy of one thousand grimaces, it's doom-like stomp makes ruin of all within its sonic miasma. The doom-riff goes into a blast and back again, finally devolving into a finale belabored by sonic savagery. "Your Hope Is A Noose" is another insanely good track. This one is more straight forward, an onslaught from beginning to end, punctuated by a feedback-fest propping up a blast riff that throws you into the chasm before the record's closer, "All Fall" throws gravel and dirt over you. Curtains.

I highly recommend this if you already have a proclivity for shit like Archgoat, Caveman Cult, Mehkago N.T., and Vassafor to name a few that I know and enjoy. If you are not familiar with these bands, still give this a check, it is fuckin ill-matic. It is like getting to be a spectator within a waking nightmare for fifteen minutes. Perfect for dismemberments, nuclear annihilation, weddings and Bar Mitzvahs.

Here is the link for Sentient Ruin Laboratories. Use it.

misanthropaganda@yahoo.com

also

misanthropaganda_publications on the 'Gram

The Rise and Fall of the Mighty L.V.G. (La Vieja Guardia). Miami Hardcore's most quintessential unit...

Sitting at a bar, getting loaded for the first time since going med-free. I am at my third drink in, with half a 'milly' of Ativan in my blood, when all of the sudden The Dead Boys "Aint It Fun" comes on in my earphones -courtesy of my meticulously curated Pandora Bad Brains Station. I focus in on the line in the last verse that sings "Ain't it fun when you've broken up every band that you've ever begun?". I laugh...

I laugh for two reasons. First, because most cretins will not understand the subtle beauty of that line, it's implications of a Punk anti-ethos before there was such a thing, and the honesty put forth in the verse -a sarcastic yet sober summation of an anti-social/sociopath, laughing at his inability to play nice with his mates. Second, I laugh because Stiv Bator's words ring true in the heart of this particular anti-social, whom has broken up EVERY band that he has ever begun as well (even solo projects.) 

A third laugh, a small chuckle pregnant with contentment barely clears my breath. Then I remember for a second, that not everything that I have put forth into the material world has been chaff... There have been some moments of artistic integrity and accomplishment, interspersed among all of the failures and greatest misses. There was a time that I had a purpose, one that solidified into a defining work of art, in this case -a piece of music, a benchmark that would never, ever be approached again. I am very proud of my old band -my most recent attempt at being a musician, that went nowhere fast; but that's okay, I would have killed it at one point or another. I suppose it is better that I doused it in kerosene and then applying a flame before the band ever had any real glory to hang on to... 

just would have made it harder to kill... 

I first published this bio/post a while back, as a backlash to an infuriating article by the fecal MIAMI NEW TIMES, in which they did not list my old band, LA VIEJA GUARDIA, a.k.a. the Mighty, Mighty L.V.G., in a list of the top 10 greatest Miami Hardcore bands of all time. Narcissistic? If so, minutely; because the fact is that in the context of this city's Punk/Hardcore scene, the L.V.G. stands as underboss to only one group of very dangerous individuals known as ANGER, which by excellence are/were Miami's undisputed kings; and I am not relinquishing nor conferring the crown unto Mean Gene and his outfit for fear of my life. A Hardcore band with the following opening line in a song, by birthright, rules these streets:

"Que pinga te pasa, te voy a matar... te saco la fuca y te vas a cagar!

A mi no me importa si tu estas empericado, a mi no mires atravezado."

[English: "What the fuck is your problem? I'm going to kill you! I'll brandish my gun and you'll shit yourself. I don't care if you're coked up, don't you look at me sideways!"]

I always had the intent of re-posting this little history of La Vieja Guardia, alias 'the Mighty, Mighty' L.V.G. on a periodic basis just to honor the memory properly because I really feel that "the L" deserves it. All of the music on the EP (save for "Pa' La Calle) was written by Harold Bosch, the Vinnie Stigma of Miami Hardcore, with not a single gram of his talents spared; and of course, all of the words were penned by yours truly, as I could never bellow nouns and verbs that didn't originate in my own soul. It was one of my few dreams since I was 19 years old, small as it may seem to a civilian, to be the bandmate of Dirty Harry Bosch before the big, long nap. Check. 

So, without further ado, I present to you this rerun of a post from June 13, 2019...

Most people never got that this logo was supposed to be a fight-cock. Sometimes detail undermines intent.

The Rise and Fall of the Mighty, Mighty, L.V.G.

To tell the story of L.V.G. we must first mention Miami melodic-punk band Guajiro. Guajiro formed in 2005. At that point they had self-released a 5 song EP which I had picked up randomly at a record store. The EP really caught my attention due to the very pronounced musical influence of Husker Du, a personal favorite. The Husker Du influence would not be all that intrigued me, but also the fact that these guys were doing it in Spanish really drew me in, since I was in a phase then of trying to reconnect with my cultural background, so I was listening to a lot more Spanish-language music at the time. I saw them play for the first time at an art gallery in Wynwood on December 17th 2005. 

That night, hours prior to the show, by sheer fluke I met their drummer Doug McKinnon at a convenience store across the street from where the gig was to take place and we sort of hit it off based on our conversation where we found the common ground of both being old Hardcore kids from the early 90's. McKinnon touted a rather impressive resume, having done stints as drummer in a few big underground names such as Boston's legendary yet abhorrent Slapshot, then over on the west coast with Ignite, the Vandals and Speak 714. We exchanged numbers and a semi-friendship formed, and subsequently through him I became acquainted with the rest of the band. 

In 2006 Guajiro ended up getting signed to I SCREAM Records who would put out their debut full-length. When studio time came around, McKinnon wanted to have at least one old-style Hardcore song on the album to show that this band had roots from that scene- a dog whistle of sorts.

So he and Guajiro guitarist Dave Santos wrote an instrumental and enlisted myself and Miami-scene Capo-regime "Dirty" Harry Bosch to throw down the lyrics and vocals. Harry at the time was doing MEHKAGO N.T. (in my top 5 favorite bands of all time), but was also known for fronting DNME and Out Of Spite. As for myself, asides from experimenting with some lo-fi hip-hop stuff, I had not done anything musically since my early 90's band Burning Strong. The song we did with Guajiro became titled 'Delincuente', Spanish for 'delinquent'. Harry and I came into the studio, penned the lyrics, went into the booth and nailed it on the first fucking take. Producer Darren Randall, who has done some knob-twisting for the likes of Pennywise (to name drop a bit) was working the boards, and he gave his respects. After a week and a half of having his prostate swollen from dealing with the prima donnas in Guajiro (the drummer and the bassist, mainly), he looked refreshed and enchanted by these two derelicts that had just knocked out a joint with "trade-off'" vocals in one take. First take! Mic drop... that's a wrap, motherfuckers. First take! First fucking T! Randall offered sincerest fist bumps, but still put forth his fist with caution. He seemed to still not be sure if the "Bulldog Boys" (Lord Frank and Dirty Harry) were friendly or not.

Everybody got super stoked by the track, and it was agreed upon by all of Guajiro's members that this song needed to be part of the live set with Harry and I singing. However, McKinnon was not satisfied with one meager serving of the musical style that was closer to his heart than the bright melodies of his main band. You can take a cat out of the jungle, but you can't take the jungle out of the cat. It was at this time that talks emerged about doing a batch of songs in the vein of 'Delincuente' and putting them on a recording. The L.V.G. had been born. 

A pic from an early rehearsal.

I came up with the name "La Vieja Guardia" which in Spanish means 'the old guard'. I felt it was a fitting name, since that's precisely what this band's  integrants were- we were old-school Hardcore guys doing a 90's revival record.  At that time, we consisted of myself, Doug McKinnon on drums, Dirty Harry Bosch and Dave Santos on guitar. We soon started rehearsing in Guajiro's practice space in West Hialeah Gardens and thanks to the riff-machine that is Harry Bosch we soon had seven songs of our own (two that would never go on to be recorded, "The Red and Black Attack" and "Para Que".) We practiced these songs till they were air-tight, over and over. We practiced until we became hostile towards each other in rehearsal. Then around that time a string of really wild house party-styled shows went down in Miami, at which we played a few with Dave switching from guitar to bass guitar duty for the purpose of the live sound. There was a tremendous response from the crowd, which in 2006 was composed of a rather eager new batch of kids at shows that were full of energy and hungry for Miami's version of the Revolution Summer, which to me, in many ways, 2006 was just that. It was a glorious time where Hardcore kids, Punks and Long-hairs coexisted in perfect disharmony -a motley army of social refuse that was ready to rumble with the world at a moment's notice. 

The time to record was now at hand. 

We went into Southern Noise studios to record the E.P. with Jon Nunez of SHITSTORM who would produce and fill in on bass guitar for the recording sessions. Jon's improvised bass solo on our song Hialeah DeathStomp still gives me goosebumps.

I think it took us about a week to record the 5 songs that ended up being put out by I SCREAM Records, no doubt thanks to affiliation with Guajiro through Doug. I didn't really feel that I SCREAM was the right label for us. I really felt that we should have gone with a Latin label, one with a distribution focus on central and south America, not a label based out of Belgium. At that time there was a lot of really cool happenings coming from Latin America in terms of Hardcore music that I wanted to be a part of. In the end I SCREAM was the one that we went with. I guess it was kind of cool, for me anyways, to be label-mates with such names as Maximum Penalty, Beowulf and Token Entry. 

I remember the night that all the dust had settled and we each all went home from Southern Noise with a finalized CD-R of the proceedings. I joyfully cried several times, I laughed several times, and despite having to be up the next day at 5AM to go break my balls for a living, I couldn't sleep, and it didn't matter. I was plugged in to something, I don't know, my Dharma perhaps, and could've gone a week without sleep. A 1AM exchange via text messages between McKinnon and myself is pretty telling...

McKinnon: U Up?

Me: Can't... Close... My.... Eyes!!!  LOL (get the reference?)

McKinnon: Dude, I've literally shed tears

Me: Dude, not more than me. We fucking did this, bro!

With an E.P. out, it was time to fill in the bass guitarist slot with a steady member. A few people were auditioned, but nobody quite fit the mold. I don't think that there was any real prerequisite qualifications that we were looking for, it was more of a certain attitude that needed to be possessed. Also, in all fairness, nobody that we auditioned could tolerate the often contentious nature of our bands' interactions with one another during practice. It could get very tense very quickly in that little room. Like I said earlier, we practiced our songs till we became hostile towards each other. The fact was that we were all guys in our late 30's at the time who were very set in our uniquely neurotic ways, and in my particular case, very angry, unmedicated and out of control. 

After an unfruitful search, finally the right fit bassist would appear in the persona (and I do want to stress the word 'persona') of former ANGER alumnus and well-known sociopath Willy "The Nasal Snowstorm" Medina. Willy was actually a tremendous lead guitarist but he really dug what we were doing conceptually and did not mind at all switching from guitar for bass duties.

There was no audition, he was in from the beginning mention. If you can boast affiliation to the mighty ANGER, you have got all the credentials you need to play in my Hardcore band. Just listen to their classic jam Winds Of Violence, just to name one of many unsung classics from this Miami band and tell that you can't put it up against anything on Age Of Quarrel, for example. Willy was, and probably still is, a fucking nut that fit perfectly with us old rusty bolts. His dexterity as a lead guitarist more than translated onto the fretboard of the bass guitar; and he was loud, obnoxious and abrasive enough to hold his own during heated band practices. The L.V.G. was complete, a motley crew of misanthropes indeed.

Unfortunately, completion of the circle would not mean that it would roll forward. Asides from playing some cool "big" shows at home and a couple of out-of-town gigs with MADBALL, and playing the Tattoo Convention, L.V.G. would pretty much die while still on the vine. There were lots of elements working against our survival as a band, from the demands of my employment which limited my ability to tour, to the fact that L.V.G. was everybody's side band; everybody but mine.

It started to feel like L.V.G. was some slut that everybody goes to fuck when their girlfriend is out with her friends. I had also come to a point personally where I did not want to be associated to Hardcore anymore just because I did not like the direction that I started seeing the scene take musically and as an attitude in general. We all came to the agreement that we had run our course, and so L.V.G. played our last show with AGNOSTIC FRONT on the 5th of February, 2009 at Churchill's Pub, Miami's version of CBGB's. What an oddly appropriate band to play a last show with, I thought, since Agnostic Front's "Live At CBGBs" cassette was among the first four Hardcore records that I got as an outcast kid in 8th grade who was just discovering this incredible underground scene. They were my "Blood In", and on that night they would be my "Blood Out" of Hardcore.

Note the SICK OF IT ALL banner behind the Drum kit... This pic is from the night we opened for them in Downtown Miami.

Do I have any regrets, as far as how far we took it, or could have? No, none at all! I was not a young man any longer, at least I did not feel like one. It became evident to me on those 'away' shows with MADBALL that I was already too neurotic and grumpy for the road, much less with four other Neanderthals in tow. I was already way too domesticated by my soon to be new-and-ex-wife and was very into the comforts of my home and my pets. Of course, had I known then what I know now, I would have administered two swift kicks to her cunt and off I would have gone to father many children in Europe (take that, Caucasoid population!) 

At the very least, I was able to scratch that itch that every old Hardcore kid gets about every 10 years or so to make a little bit of ruckus. I was able to scratch that itch with a record that I am really proud of, one that finally made MIAMI HARDCORE into a thing...

So to Abel Folgar's Charmin'-grade journalism, and anyone who may have read and gotten offended by my claim that the L.V.G. should have been on that list, I will now present my case, for your consideration....

Look, musically L.V.G. wasn't inventing the wheel. How far can you go with Hardcore without it morphing into something else? We were doing our take on formulas that already existed from the very late 80's and into the 90's. I think if you were to listen for old-school influences, one can detect a little bit of WARZONE, maybe some CRO-MAGS, even some post-Hardcore flavor of bands like ATLAS SHRUGGED or BURN is present.

Undeniably, the elements that made L.V.G. exceptional (in my view, anyways) is the sincerity of emotion and the spirit of the music. Those five songs would make the hair on my arms stand up like needles when I would perform, or even when I listen to them today the effect has not diminished. The product speaks for itself. Those songs are executed razor tight, with no emotion compromised. Of course, none of which could have been achieved without the riff mastery of Harry Bosch, one of the musicians that I have had the most admiration for throughout my years in music. Every band that Harry has ever formed has been in some way detrimental to the survival of the South Florida Hardcore scene and the man is an encyclopedia of music. I can say that I was bandmates with Harry Bosch... my career in Hardcore was now complete. I'm now an elder statesman. 

Musicality aside, L.V.G.'s lyrical content is ultimately what really set us aside from the Miami Hardcore pack. Riding on our sound was a homegrown attitude, a truly 'Miami' approach to lyricism that gave LA VIEJA GUARDIA its true unique flavor. L.V.G. would be an all Spanish language Hardcore band which up until us, and I don't believe since, has there been a band like that in Miami.

I always found it odd that there weren't other bands that wrote in all Spanish, a scene that was almost entirely comprised of Latin kids. ANGER only had like two songs in Spanish I think ("NI PINGA!" being one of them -a classic). We wanted to throw it down not only in Spanish, but in Miami/Cuban slang. I tried to incorporate as much deep Cuban slang and idioms into the lyrics and they just worked. I knew that it would be a little alienating to do so, but it was the only way to write THE Miami Hardcore record, a job which I believe we did successfully. Also, I wanted Cuba to have it's hat in the ring, up until that point, traditional Hardcore had not reached the island yet despite a burgeoning Punk scene. 

I put a lot of heart into those lyrics, which at the end of the day is what gives a Hardcore band its greatness and its legitimacy. I challenge any Spanish speaker/reader to listen to that record while following along with the lyrics and not have their emotions stirred by our track 'Entre Hermanos', or the esoteric philosophies espoused in 'Moyugba Ache'.  The spirit of Hardcore is ever present in that recording that I am endlessly proud of. At the very least, when all is said and done, we contributed something truly solid to the zeitgeist, a bittersweet testament to Miami Hardcore that will stand the test of time, and for that I am eternally grateful to those four Neanderthals.   

Jamaican Dem

I have been 100% free of Psychiatric medication for 8 days. No Venlafaxine courses through me any longer to trick my brain into thinking that life isn't a festering pile of shit. No Risperidone saturates my blood, making the discordant chorus that sings battle hymns in my head crescendo into a cacophonous symphony now -no more muffler. They are going off in there, man -what a racket! 

You guys want to keep it down in there? It's like Bedlam!

A seven year physical and psychological addiction, has been taken in repentine fashion and wiped over my balls. This has been a nightmare, while simultaneously an experience that has brought me closer to myself -'the I'. I am not out of the woods yet, I would say that I have two more weeks before the worst is over; but I can say that everyday it gets a bit easier. I become more and more like the old me, and in the process I become more numb... every single day... 

Soon, I won't feel shit anymore -not for any reason, not for anyone or anything. 

(Detachment.)

[Transcendence.]

Alone is my dharma. I have done this by myself. I have not had a therapist to indulge my pussy-assed tendencies to boo-hoo and "why me". I've done all of my crying for John Dolo, straight to the dick, a year plus without bothering a soul with my Greek tragedies. In fact, last week, I went to see a so-called Neuropsychologist, just to vent, whom kicked me THE FUCK out of the sesh (about 3 minutes in) for dropping an F-Bomb and calling Psychology quackery. LoL. 

"Get out. I'll have you know, I'm not just some therapist, I'm a Neuropsychologist"

"Oh yeah, congratulations toots... I'm not just a lunatic, I'm a holistic gynecologist... Your smelly Chakra is imbalanced..."

 I am not being monitored or counter-medicated by some Psychiatrist. I can't go back to my old Psych after the pretty picture I texted him of my forearms looking like Dusty Rhodes' forehead after the match with Abdullah The Butcher (circa 1985) and a caption reading "where do we go/where do we go now?". It is very safe to say that if I show this hideous face at that prick's office again, the boys with the butterfly nets are going to crash into my sesh like they were the Kool-Aid man's godchildren. Dr. Bombay was a guaranteed Baker Act just once that little image reached his inbox, so I guess this is where we part ways -you curly-haired geek. To think that I "Acked" you in my novel... ugh! Thanks for nothing... 

(Fuck, he was a Bauhaus fan, though. That counts for a lot!)

I do not vent to another living soul save for the venting I do here or on social media. I am certainly not drinking daily anymore, so scratch that off of the list of potential sources of solace. Let us see how bad you'd want to have a drink when everyday at around 5pm you feel like you have a fever and start getting teeth-chattering chills. I seriously think that I had a seizure the night that I crashed at Samantha Cadiz's flat. Imagine the bodily discomfort of LSD without ANY of the fun rewards, that is kind of what this is like -as if a waking fever dream. 

With the exclusion of one act of kindness from that aforementioned, remarkable young woman, alone is my dharma...

I have, however, called upon my higher power to get me through this. That higher power, of course, is music... 

Reggae music in particular will be the balm for my ails. No Venlafaxine nor Risperidone makes my spine "ah straight-up" like that 4/4 time, the offbeat skank, and that lunging bassline. Nothing will make 'the I' feel as if a conqueror like a dual horn blast combo from Bobby Ellis and Tommy McCook (Blazing Horns, 1977, Fiyah!) that can tumble the Walls of Jericho. When I hear a Val Bennet sax line, 'the I' feels like a cool, hillside breeze that refreshes you as you sip up some cocoa tea.

 I can hold my head up, and without the aid of meds. I just need the man called I-Roy 'toasting up' a version (shun shun shun shun shun shun...) over the "Sidewalk Killer" riddim. Jacob Miller's "Rockers", from the movie soundtrack, and the whole subgenre (period, actually) that it defines will be the strength I will call upon to beat this thing. Gregory Isaac's moan and groan will touch me even deeper now. The character of EEK-A-MOUSE will fill the gap left by my fleeting personality. "Scratch" is perfect for me in my new levels of insanity. The Nyabinghi forces will replace the belief or fear in "nah duppy, ya seen?!" 

Reggae has been a passion in my being since early on, thanks to the man, the Boss selector, the man called Clint O'Neil (do your homework). I discovered Clint O'Neil way before there was a Sunday Reggae Vibe on the college station (WVUM, Conscious Rhythms, R.I.P.) It was a little hard to not come across his delightful baritone at least once if you were a Miami native in the days of knob-twisting radio. Why? OK, follow my logic... James Brown touted himself the hardest working man in show biz, but really he can kiss Clinto's balls. O'Neil worked like a Jamaican, pardon the stereotype, doing overnights 6 days a week, with a different theme every night, and had the greatest Caribbean DJ voice and trademark laugh ever. Just to illustrate, he would do Mento/Calypso night, Soca (especially during carnival season), Rocksteady/Ska, early Reggae, Dub, Rockers, etc. So, to my point, any Miami native from the the knob-twist days knows Lord Clint's voice, either advertently or in passing. Now, if you're a Reggae diehard from Miami, Clint O'Neil is one of your patron saints. Him ah Ras!

 Later on, just before college, the passion in me that was ignited of my own curiosities and furiously stoked by O'Neil would be broadened and refined by the man called Louie Rockerz (Jah Cuban Sound), who quickly gauging my likes and dislikes took me deeper into the "DeeJays" period, and put me on to Lover's Rock and Dancehall Reggae. 

We (meaning 'the I' and my associates from the "Bass Mint") were a bunch of Latin youths running around with some very, very tasty Reggae record collections (my first purchase was Pablo Moses' Revolutionary Dream... I'm just saying.) As for them, they got jobs at VP Records after high school which made their crates fatten with insane choice cuts. My commitment and love would pay off, once my sparse travels through the West Indies took place, and my love and knowledge of Reggae would be rewarded by big smiles, sincere fist bumps and 'big-ups' ("Respect, Seen?!) from my Caribbean brethren and sistrens. 

The Man called Clint O'Neil, the Boss Selector, dem ah call him "The Wolfman Jack Of Reggae"

JahCuban Sound's Rockers (this mixtape ah deadly mi ah tell yah, youth!)

The second week of this hell that I am in, I was able to get by using very vivid, controlled hallucinations involving myself "riding this thing out" in Negril -at night while I'm busy not sleeping. There has been hallucinatory instances, nothing to get scared over, but very vivid. Still, at night, I can manipulate the racing thoughts if I focus them on an "Om". Negril is my Om. Yeah, there's a madness to my method as well as a method to my madness. I-Man was sitting up in the RIU Negril, eating Callaloo and Breadfruit, smoking "I-Grade" and drinking Appleton Estates chased with Red Stripes. A very dark-skinned, pretty Jamaican girl, "society gyal" named Sunshine (reference, do your homework) keeping me company in her homemade Burning Spear T-shirt, and she just "ah nice up mi afternoon wit' a smile and Chinese eyes". 

Thankfully, the Reggae section of my record crates...

 "rules the nation...

 with versions" 

(shuns shuns shuns shuns shuns.) 

I have summoned every absolute annihilator in my arsenal, every single, massive "Big Chune" in my repertoire to create an ambience that can take me there... 'down yard way'. Amidst my odd escapism, a poem was born. To me, the best I've ever written... ever. Only thing though, it is written in Patois. If you can't follow Patois on a phonic level at least, well... then ... 

Bye!

(Soon Foh-wad, ya' 'ir?!)

To the rest -with half a brain and a "Likkle culcha'" -check this... This is my favorite of all of my written poems. I call this one... 

"Jamaican Dem".

Jamaican Dem

'Pon the North Coast Highway,

the man called Nesbeth ah drive

his minibus.

From Mo' Bay, about an hour away, to Negril.

On Independence day, no less.

Slowly but surely, 'im ah get mi' der...

'im a transfer us-

Me, Myself and I and I and I...

(Yes, I...)

 

A Delroy Wilson chune ah play fi mi system,

Nesbeth ah smile, and ah nod 'im head, "Ya mon!"

'im ah look at I and I, and 'im a ponda', "What kind ah Cuban ah dis?"

"Nesbeth, the Boss!" mi' ah say to 'im.

"Hail, Star" 'im reply. 

This ah beauty in mi' soul eye.

Ah black mon, ah beige mon,

find ah common heart in ah culture vibe.

One of dem ah bon in da cradle, in ah yard...

the other mon ah student of culture, 'im ah mon ah da world, 'im no commercial Ras...

The Dasheen ah beautiful... so broad and green, biggest leaves mi ah ever see...

The likkle houses on the 'illsides charming in simplicity.

Mon, the air ah smell like spices so nice,

of curry and roasting breadfruit, and

cocoa trees,

and Ganja smoke that ah lively you up.

"Nesbeth, ya' mus tek mi fi Orange Hill, ya' kno'."

When I man arrived at Orange Hill, mi' ah kiss the dirt, where mother Earth grow her finest herbs.

Then ah Rastaman ah put an ounce in each 'and, and 'im a say "My yout', bless I, seen?!

And mi' ah reply "Yes I, Ras, I mon ah conscious yout' ya' kno".I mon an ital yout', seen?! Mi' prey on calabash and callaloo and dasheen and nah eat nah ting that can cry an' scream. Ya seen?!"

The Ras ah reason with da' mon, and 'im ah bless the chalwa fi mi' lick up the I-tion.

Negril hotel mi' next destination.

Listenin' to 'chunes' way over yonder can never mimic

the power of clappin' thunder an' Earth riddims 'pon deh'. 

'Pon the North Coast Highway, "Shades of Keith Hudson" kept mi cool and deadly in 100 degrees, mon.

Nesbeth ah grin, ah suck his teeth... "Cho... Mon, ya got selections!"

"Mon mi mixtape is perfection, Nesbeth... I-Man a dig in dem crates, mi boss! I mon a save up tapes, mi boss, of the man called Clint O'Neil who taught Reggae 101 when mi a likkle yout'"

"Mon ya sumthin' else, seen?! Ya jus ah cool mon ah come check yard"

Mi say "Yes I, your country fi deh garden of Jah, my youth!"

Mon, it ah rain in paradise fi five days straight.

Mi nah splash in nah beach, mi nah fun in nah sun,

Mi have fun in mi hotel smokin' Collie and drinking rum.

Makin' small talk fi mi' brethren and sistrens

Spreading love, fi mi love is seen.

Jamaican dem, I Man ah mek' dem smile.

I and I make dem eye gleam.

I and I got culture vibe though it may nah seem.

I and I love Jamaican dem, mi ah hold dem fi mi shanty heart...

Yes I...

What is the freezing temperature for male ejaculate?

 

No, seriously, I would like to know the freezing temperature of jizz, just so that I can gauge whether I would have leaked gooey goodness or have shot icicles through my prick in the titanic presence of these two forces of nature. Post Punk Online (a great site by the way) posted this picture on Instagram and I fucking had a religious experience upon locking my gaze. I don't think there is nothing else to say. This picture is worth one thousand words, divided up into two halves -500 raps from Ice and 500 Siouxsie lyrics. I couldn't even begin to fathom standing in this field of electro-magnetic currents. I do just want to make one comment though, and that is that I came of age in the greatest musical period of all time. Right around the time of that first Lollapalooza tour, the musical landscape was fucking unbelievable. I will just refer you to the JUDGEMENT NIGHT soundtrack to illustrate my point. Satan bless the early 90s!!!

Bolts!

High-Kool

if god does exist,

and had not a thing to do,

he would kill himself.

Real Men

Real men don't like art or books

            Real men just want meat on hooks

        Real men have no time for love

   Real men worship god above

            Real men need to hunt and fish

                        Real men lick blood off their dish

Real men like to fuck and fight

                       Real men like their pussy tight

                   Real men earn 75k a year

                          Real men never show pain or fear

                       Real men love to drink their beer

  Real men love proving "they ain't queers"

          Real men love big tits and ass

                  Real men need their diesel gas

              Real men never, ever take drugs

                               Real men enjoy busting metal slugs

Real men are naturally born to kill

  Real men do it for the thrill

                 Real men love calling for a blitz

Real men wives often get hit

            Real men are married, have a girlfriend and another

Real men honor their father and mother

            Real men where jewelry and pluck their brows

    Real men eat poultry and cows

                   Real men have big, veiny cocks

 Real men growl and grunt when they talk

Real men are manly as can be

                          Real men are fucking abhorrent to me

"Masculinity, beats the living hell out of me"

                                                         - 108 "Solitary Confinement"

Misanthropaganda Publication's maiden voyage, Lord Teardrop's debut novel Diazepam Dreams out now. Email or DM for info on how to hook up! Bolts!!

Contact:

misanthropaganda@yahoo.com

IG: misanthropaganda_blogspot

Atlanta Girls

 If I were to tell you that this poem has been stashed away for ten years in the archives of my heart and mind, just waiting to see the light of day, would you believe me? The vivid, emotional memories of a Union business trip to Hotlanta ten plus years ago have been holding 'Freaknik' in my mind ever since. All of the thoughts and feelings that I had conceived and experienced on that trip have been bursting at my seams for a decade... until today! Today, I put all of my depression and related ills aside for a bit and tip-toed back to that week in A-T-L, and if for a moment, I basked in the wonderland of women that I had at least been fortunate to have been able to enjoy even if as a mere spectator to the game and not a participator. Atlanta may have been the exact place and time which I realized two things:

1) How "girl-crazy" I really am, and

2) That marriage was a big, big, BIG mistake.

You live and you learn. You chill and you burn...

Anyways, today, I decided to throw back a pair of Bombay doubles and tinker with a couple of lines just to finally be able to get some weight off my chest regarding that wonderful city. I couldn't possibly transform into prose every anecdote from that eventful week, but I was able to cite the standout moments of that trip. Atlanta, I love you...

Atlanta Girls

Ah, Brooke, Brooke, my babbling Brooke...

The beautiful Brooke Baldwin is cable news' bright shining star! 

Those bulbous, iridescent cheekbones as if pearls (my regards to her makeup person), the most beautifully structured I've ever seen by far; and those eyes of hers perfectly combined by color and shape, she bats them just so and I disintegrate...

What can you expect? She's an Atlanta girl!

And now, it is finally about that time... 

May the feelings of a decade past manifest into paper flesh without the threat of a dragon's breath down the nape of my neck. Atlanta, Georgia may well be where I truly learned the wonders of women -the thunder of physiques fed by southern fare, your words blundering as a response to their southern charms. Southern hospitality they come bearing with both arms and now you are rendered vulnerable, disarmed.

Brunettes and blondes, Caucasian to Black from Red-bones to Bronzed to Ebony graven images carved in honor of the gods of aesthetics, I just had to stare even if apologetic for my eyes lack of etiquette. They all sent me in search of the rhetoric that could extract a smile and a wink, a giggle as they cover their lips, if granted time to share a drink it'd be even better yet.

At the world famous "Gladys Knight's" I broke bread with a Jamaican daughter 'mi a fi sight up'. 

'Dem brains mi a fi flight out' when she heard me speak in patois sword. 'Mi a fi bring ya home to me mum fi Sunday dinner'. To hear those words from a 'society gyal', man, I felt like such a winner... My sweet, sweet Roxanne, turned me into a roasted breadfruit in her hand. Now I fully understand Gregory when he moans and says "oh gosh".

The coffee kiosk at the Hyatt Regency became a bazaar or as if a market square of eons past, where her ancient stare pierced my armor. I could smell her fragrant oil which took me there to Addis Ababa. "Are you Ethiopian?" I had the nerve to inquire. Her dark eyes brightened with wonder and riddle.

"I am, I am, how did you know, you odd little man?" 

Me:"My beloved, it's all over your face, it's like a map of the place. Your nametag may as well spell out your name in Amharic, your mystic beauty as if a spiritual retreat, now please, I'll have an almond milk latte and not too sweet."

One night in my stay this blue Lexus swerved and swayed and slid up beside me. The window cracked and a billow of weed smoke blinded me. "Come inside, boo, you look cold." It was a working girl cruising her stroll, wheeling and dealing for love on chrome dubs. I may have been drunk but luckily I was broke because I may have laid with her but Thoth knows where I would have awoke. Fuck, that weed smelled dank, wish I could have taken a toke. That leather seat couldn't have been beat on that chilly October night, and so seemed her invitation to end the trip right. But as the [G.O.D.] said "E&J had mind flippin'", and so I was spittin' hot fire with no slurring or skipping. She said "you're charming you know that?" I said "what is that you say?" She asked me "do all Miami guys holler at girls that way?" She looked like Diana Ross with six golds to the bottom. That year, she made my whole Autumn as I floated on the implications of a sex worker's words that my style and finesse can still be observed.

It was no wonder that my last day here I flooded Peach Tree Street in a deluge of tears, as I took an early morning walk to watch the Korean office girl running to the job in heels and a pencil skirt. That morning , I swear my chest hurt thinking of the million birds in the bush only to return to a vulture in hand. Atlanta, a free man took his last stand in a garden of illusions before returning to a sentence in the institution of unholy acrimony, that is, to die slowly in matrimony.  

And now that I am no longer bound, my old flesh and bones nowhere to be found, perhaps another trip to A-T-L will conjure the lustful me right back up from hell so that this tale I may tell (only with a different ending) and resurrect my passion (oh I can just imagine). Had I have been a bachelor in Hotlanta -Goddamn! There is no other way to enjoy the few small triumphs of being man. First thing on my list -a little roasted breadfruit and Ackee for Sunday breakfast with sweet, sweet Roxanne... 

Just an unfriendly reminder, Misanthropaganda Publications, a small, obscure publishing house has just pressed its first release, Diazepam Dreams, a novel by the Editor-in-Chief/High Priest under the nom de plum 'Franky Teardrop'. The novel, in a very loose way, can be appraised as an odd combination of Catcher In The Rye with Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas. This is a (reality-based) fictional work with an emphasis on mood and tone rather than on chills and thrills. The venture into fiction is a new one, as Teardrop's work has typically till now consisted of satire and critique. Anyone interested can drop a line at either our email or Instagram account for info on how to obtain a copy. There are currently 100 hand numbered copies in existence.

misanthropaganda@yahoo.com

Instagram: misanthropaganda_publications

Besitos...